


dorchadas

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [2]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-19
Updated: 2005-01-19
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	dorchadas

Jack Sparrow comes awake instantly, though there's nothing to be seen in the pitchy blackness of the _Black Pearl_ 's interior, some time (the _Pearl_ doesn't hold with that Navy habit of turning the glass and striking the bell, a constant unconscious time-keeper for any captain worth the name and every man before the mast, but Jack can feel the state of the tide as it ebbs and flows around the _Pearl_ 's sleek dark coppered hull, making the timbers sing and hum with sea-rhythm) after midnight but well before dawn, in the darkest hours of the moonless night, even the stars obscured by the massy cloud that's followed them for days -- the unrelenting rain's still hammering on the deck above his head, a soothing sound and not one to have woken him -- and no light anywhere for him to see his own hand, had he raised it before his face; yet something's woken Jack, and he doesn't need sight to know that there's someone else in the cabin, someone sharing the same small warm space full of stale air and echoes; doesn't need eyes, either (though he can't help but open them, and gaze unblinkingly into the blackness as if he's staring down the night itself) to know who's here with him: "Jack," he whispers softly, and from out of the darkness comes a broad, warm hand, aromatic with the grassy smell of hemp -- he's been aloft tonight -- to rest lightly against Jack's mouth, as if to say, "be still"; one finger traces the plump curve of Jack's lower lip, and he bites gently at it, then makes a plaintive noise as it's removed; the darkness is all around him, like a blindfold, yet Jack can see Shaftoe very clearly, as though illumined by bright sunlight, all vivid colour and movement; perhaps it's simply that he's spent so very much time lately (and fully intends to spend more, much more, over the years to come) staring at Jack Shaftoe, committing to memory every mannerism, gesture, expression, nuance; noticing the way that the hair above Shaftoe's ear is soft and feathery and of an ambery hue, and the way that the small white scar on his cheekbone stretches when he's mocking Jack, which is frequent, but generally _mutual_ , and Jack -- whose _amour propre_ can be a fearsome beast -- loves it, gives as good as he gets, lets Shaftoe tease and bait him, for oh, what fun to retaliate, and what bliss to exact revenge; indeed, Shaftoe's oddly passive presence in his cabin, in the middle of the night, not speaking or kissing or touching but merely _being_ , might be notional retribution for some imagined offense, for his appointment to the night watch or for Jack's lewd games this morning: then again, Jack corrects himself as Shaftoe's warm, delicious mouth fastens over his own, this silent visitation might be some _reward_ , for Jack Shaftoe's kissing him all sweet and slow, and now his broad hand is peeling back the sweaty sticky sheet, laying Jack's skin open to the darkness, and Shaftoe's hand is sure and knowing on his chest, thumb pressing on Jack's nipple, fingers splayed across his sternum, palm covering his pounding heart; Jack wants to moan, cry out, ask for what he wants, but the darkness is somehow not only blindfold but gag -- though Jack Shaftoe's kiss is silencing him more effectively than anything -- and besides, he's positively sure (has days- and nights-worth of memories to back him up, here) that Shaftoe knows what Jack wants, and is perfectly capable of bestowing it upon him without instruction, verbal or otherwise; and though it's very, definitively, utterly black within the cabin, Shaftoe's hands do not fumble, his mouth does not falter; without ceasing his caresses, he's suddenly -- Jack can hear the bunk creaking, and the slide of Shaftoe's leathery-soled foot leaving the deck as he pushes himself up -- lying close beside Jack, and Jack stretches out a hand (rather, his hand is drawn, like iron to a magnet) and touches Shaftoe's sleek skin, still rain-wet and (Jack swallows) quite naked; he must've stripped off his trousers, all he wore on deck in this warm, wet latitude, before ever coming into the cabin, and the thought of Jack Shaftoe roaming the ship naked (not that nudity was prohibited, or even especially remarkable, on board any pirate ship; many a man diced away everything he owned, on a long voyage like this) is enough to make Jack's yard -- already enthralled by Shaftoe's mere presence -- twitch and swell, and then (Jack can't help himself, but groans against Shaftoe's mouth) leap as a confident hand wraps around it; Shaftoe breaks the kiss, and Jack twists himself up to resume it, lighting up the darkness with shocking explosions as he knocks his temple painfully against Shaftoe's shoulder; "Shhhh," whispers Shaftoe in the darkness, breath hot against Jack's throbbing head, pushing him flat and lavishing a slow, wet kiss on the injured area; then he's mumbling something in some foreign tongue, of which Jack only catches a single word, " **dorchadas** ", which he's sure he'd know if only all the thought hadn't been driven from his head by that sudden collision, and -- more honestly -- by the irresistable motion of Shaftoe's sure hand on his yard; anyway, how can any man be expected to puzzle out some heathenish saying when his mind's full of the scent and sensation of Shaftoe's damp hair, dragging over his bare skin, and his tongue tracing a shivery twisty rivulet of sweat down from Jack's ear to his collarbone; full of the salt-musk scent of Shaftoe's armpits, and the insectile creep of his dark lashes against the swell of Jack's cheek, something he's never felt -- but surely _must've_ felt -- before: perhaps the _sight_ of Jack Shaftoe, on past occasions, had overwhelmed all but the most insistent impressions conveyed by other senses; in simple language, by _seeing_ Shaftoe's long lashes against his skin, and _feeling_ Shaftoe's red mouth _oh please_ around his cock, he's robbed himself of scent, sound, taste, and all those subtler touches; and Jack Sparrow, resolving to keep his eyes shut ever after (and laughing at himself for such a foolishly absolute resolution, for what man could resist the vision of Jack Shaftoe, devoting himself to that man's pleasure?) murmurs, "What's that you said, Jack?" for the simple feel of Shaftoe's warm breath across his navel, Shaftoe's hair falling loose over his belly, as he explains, "'tis _darkness_ , Jack, that darkness that covers all ... crimes," and Jack feels Shaftoe's smile, all fierce and gleeful, as Shaftoe bends his head and runs his tongue down the line of black hair that leads, oh, _leads_ to Jack's yard, now cushioned firm against it, and Jack lies back and takes it, passive as any girl -- indeed, more passive than most of the girls he's known -- striving to focus on every sensation at once, the laval heat of Shaftoe's mouth, the achy press of his practiced fingers, the scent of his body (Jack'd swear he can smell Shaftoe's arousal, quite distinct from his own and yet inciting him afresh) as he makes the lights explode anew before Jack Sparrow's unseeing eyes.


End file.
